


Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.

by JJ (novascotia7777)



Series: JJ [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: Avengers Tower, Charlie fangirls, Consultants are different than Agents, Gen, Index hatred, JJ finds out angels exist and its no big deal, JJ ships Destiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6272659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novascotia7777/pseuds/JJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when JJ and Natasha go looking for Coulson, but find him, May, and Morse interrogating the Winchesters, someone named Novak, and someone named Bradbury?<br/>Also known as, "The One Where JJ Blows Up At Coulson About the Index"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D.

_(11/22/2015) (Two days after completion of Haunted Costumes)_

* * *

"S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6, this is S.H.I.E.L.D. 2-1-6, what is your location?" I sounded off over the comms. 

 _"This is S.H.I.E.L.D. 6-1-6, Agent May speaking. Who am I talking to?"_  

"Heya, May, it's Solo. I need to speak with Fitz-Simmons and Coulson. Radio your location or activate your tracker, pretty please." 

 _"Understood, JJ. Activating tracker now."_  

"Thank you!" I smiled even though she couldn't see it. 

I picked up the signal and followed it to Lebanon, Kansas. It only took about an hour at the speed I was flying, starting from Minnesota, that is. The Mall of America had a nice nail salon. 

"You manage to find 'em?" Natasha asked me. Since I was younger than her, she was pilot, I was co-. Although, she wasn't doing much. I was practically flying on my own. 

Meh. C'est la vie. 

"They turned on their tracker; we're not that far," I answered. 

There were three Avengers that knew Coulson was alive. Agent Clint Barton, Agent Natasha Romanoff, and me (but I was only an honorary Avenger). And the only reason we got to know was because we were actual S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and we had a high enough clearance. 

Welcome to Level Eight, right? 

I set the quinjet down in a grass field about fifty yards from Coulson's Bus (why he called it _that_ , I haven't a clue). The hatch of his plane was down and it looked empty, void of people. It was drizzling rain. 

"What do you suggest, Agent Romanoff?" I asked as we disembarked the aircraft. 

"Check the aircraft, then we'll check that door," Tash pointed to the carefully concealed door about fifty yards away, which was the same distance from here to the Bus. 

"I'll take upper, you take lower?" I suggested. 

"Roger, roger," she replied in the affirmative. 

"Is that a subtle hint that you want to watch _Star Wars_ the next time we have a movie night?" 

"I don't do 'subtle'," Natasha said before she disappeared into the bowels of the airplane. I sighed and went up the spiral staircase. Yep, Coulson's plane had a _spiral staircase_. 

Everyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. knew exactly how Natasha did 'subtle' (which was to say, not at all). 

Coulson's plane was so big, it was practically a house that flew. Complete with a kitchen, bathrooms and showers, sleeping quarters, a holding area, a laboratory, and a workout area, among other places. But, considering how familiar I was with helicarriers, the size didn't come to that much of a shock. 

"Find anything?" I asked after about five minutes of radio silence as I methodically searched room-to-room. 

 _"No one,"_ Natasha's voice crackled through the earpiece. 

"Me neither, and I'm almost done," I admitted. "Aaaaand done. Top level clear." 

 _"Bottom_ _level_ _clear,"_ Tash confirmed. _"Let's meet_ _outside. Time to check out that door."_  

"Copy," I answered, pocketing the butterscotch candy I found on the dash. "Damn, this thing would be easy to get lost in." 

 _"Most definitely,"_ Tash laughed over the comms. 

It was full-on pouring down rain when I met back up with Natasha at the hatch of the plane. 

"This is gonna be fun," I smiled at her. 

"Oh, yeah," she smiled. "Spooky door in the middle of nowhere encased in brick and mortar? Clint would be jealous." 

"Let's rub it in his face when we get back," I giggled. 

"Deal," she laughingly agreed. So, sneaking speedily through the pouring rain, we made it the hundred yards or so to the door. 

"Is it locked?" I asked. 

"Surprisingly, no. It's even open a bit, too, see?" Tash gently kicked at it, and the rusty metal door squeaked open. 

"Team's probably in there," I mused, shaking out the wet from my hair and clothes. 

Natasha insisted on going first (older agent, higher ranking, weird fascination of spooky doors), but I followed her closely, right on her six like a good little agent. The floor of the doorway and entryway was covered in dried mud and blood but dissipated the farther we walked. The blood was too old and too dry to be fresh, so it wasn't from anyone recent. If Coulson and his team _did_ come through here, they ( ~~probably~~ ~~most likely~~ _definitely_ ) weren't wounded. 

The first place we entered was a garage. Concrete was the floor and there were two rows of classic cars. Industrial hanging lights hung to the ceiling, switched off. 

There was another door leading into a tiled hallway with the lights on. White on the floor, black on the very edges as a border. Then a faux-brick look on the sides coming up as tall as me (five-three in my snazzy black boots), and the rest of the high walls and ceiling were an off white. No mud and blood here, though, which was good. It tapered off in the garage. 

"You hear that?" Natasha asked softly, holding a closed fist up for me to halt. 

"Sounds like..." I trailed off in a whisper, listening intently. "Talking?" 

It was faint, it was muffled, but it was definitely a man's voice. Familiar, almost, but I couldn't place it until I was closer. Sound traveled, but not at a great quality. 

We followed the sound down a couple more of the same, clinical hallways until it became clear enough to distinct the words. 

"... _is_ this 'Index', exactly?" _Was that Sam Winchester?_  

And then Coulson's smooth, worry-free voice, "The Index is a list of powered people that S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps. It's just a precautionary measure." 

Oh hell no. 

"Oh, _fuck_ no," I whispered harshly, striding over to where Coulson's voice was the loudest. Outside the open doorway, Agent Bobbi Morse was standing guard. "Ugh, move your ass, Morse," I snapped, waving my hand to push her a few paces from the doorway. 

Sam and Dean Winchester were sitting at a big wooden table, their cuffed hands visible on the glossy surface. A man with black hair sat next to Dean, and a woman with short red hair sat next to Sam (not as short as mine, mind you, but longer than Sam's; shoulder-length), both cuffed with the silver shackles. May and Coulson were strategically placed around the room, Coulson facing the men and woman at the table. 

They all turned to look at me. 

" _Nobody_ is going on the Index," I stated definitively and with no room for argument. Then, I turned to glare at Coulson. "And _you_ are not gonna _sugarcoat_ the Index." 

"Hello, JJ," Coulson greeted serenely. 

"Don't you 'Hello, JJ' _me_ , mister. You don't get to sugarcoat the Index. The Index is a death sentence," I turned to the four at the table. "Depending on your ability, it can mean a lifetime of blood tests to see what makes you special and psych evals to make sure you're not gonna go crazy and level New York City, or a one-way ticket straight to the Fridge." 

"S.H.I.E.L.D.'s super-secret dungeon for dangerous people on the Index and dangerous supernatural artifacts," the redhead agreed. 

"How do you know about that?" I asked her. 

"Charlotte--" 

" _Charlie_ ," she interrupted. 

" _Charlie_ Bradbury hacked S.H.I.E.L.D., bringing me and my team here," Coulson explained. "We take security threats very seriously." 

"You're so concerned about a security risk, then give 'em badges. Either way, _no one is going on the Index_." 

"Are you in any position to make demands, Agent Solo?" Morse demanded from the doorway. 

"Would you like to get your shoes stuck to the ceiling with you in them, Morse?" I fired back rhetorically. "I'd turn around, you have a Black Widow behind you." 

"Hi," Natasha whispered in Morse's ear. 

"Hello, Agent Romanoff," Morse said without jumping or turning around. Okay, that took skills. 

"Look," I took a breath, trying to calm myself. Insubordination, even if it was Coulson, would get me nowhere. "This is about Sam, right? He's an _empath_. And he probably didn't realize he was until _you_ people came barging in." 

"Okay, I know this is supposed to be super-serious and all, but _holyshitit'sSkywalkerandtheBlackWidow_!" Charlie gasped. "T-The Battle of New York, and Sokovia? I am a _big_ fan." 

"Yeah, hi," I dismissed her. We'd chat later. I had bigger things to worry about.  "Sam Winchester is _not_ going on the Index. Do I make myself clear?" I turned to Coulson. "He's not a compulsive; this is not a Kilgrave situation. He's just an empath, and not a strong one." 

"Would someone like to explain just what the hell is going on?" Dean interrupted irately. 

"Yes, of course, Dean," I addressed him. "Right after we board the Nope train to Fuckthatville on the matter of the Index." 

"Coulson, are you sure this is wise?" Morse asked him, walking towards him. "The Winchesters are mass murderers, Jimmy Novak is mentally disturbed, and Charlotte Bradbury hacked S.H.I.E.L.D. on the Winchesters' orders. 

"Stand down, Morse," Coulson ordered. "Solo, where are you going with this?" 

"Sir," I clasped my hands behind my back submissively. "Dean and Sam Winchester are not mass murderers in the human sense. They deal with supernatural creatures and entities that are threats to national and international security and safety in order to keep the human race safe, much like S.H.I.E.L.D. does with extraterrestrial threats. Based on my interactions with them in Larsen County, it is my professional opinion that they are worth more to S.H.I.E.L.D. as assets or agents than dead. And I believe Agent Barton would agree with me. I also believe that it would do more harm than good to place Sam Winchester on the Index. The Index is more of a potential threat list of people with enhanced or gifted abilities. Sam Winchester's ability is not a threat, potential or otherwise. I believe he can only sense emotions, and I believe he does that subconsciously, much like I do with my shield." 

"Explain to us how beneficial they were on your last case," May ordered, speaking up for the first time. 

"Ma'am, with all due respect, Agent Barton and I were unprepared. The culprit in question ended up being the spirit of one Chester Johnson, who was murdered a few months ago. He was never convicted but was heavily suspected of molesting children under the guise as a kids' party performer. He possessed several of his costumes, and therefore the people wearing them, and tried to go after his murderers. Respectfully, without the Winchesters, people would still be dying. We allowed them to take point because we were _severely_ out of our league." 

"Spirits?" Morse repeated incredulously. "As in, ghosts? Are you _kidding_ me?" 

"Barton's steel-tipped arrows did nothing. The ghost threw me into a tree before Dean Winchester got a shot off. Rock salt in a shotgun shell," I elaborated. "He was cremated, so we couldn't salt and burn his bones, which is the usual way to take care of a vengeful spirit. So, we had to salt and burn the costume he was possessing at the time to stop him. But, like I stated previously, we would not have gotten anywhere without the Winchesters. This is all in my case file." 

"I-I'm still kinda confused," Sam spoke up. "W-What are you saying?" 

"Sam," I sighed, taking a seat at the table. I knew for a fact they were only wearing the handcuffs as a sign of good faith, that or they were already undone and just buying time. "I want you to only focus on me. Tune everyone else out. Can you do that?" I requested in an unexpected softness. 

"Uh, maybe, why?" 

"Close your eyes, and only focus on me. I want you to tell me what I'm feeling." 

"I—what?" 

"Just concentrate," I said, and he closed his eyes. "Clear your mind, and tell me what I'm feeling." 

He took a few deep breaths before speaking hesitantly. 

"Um," he drew out. "Irritation? No, pissed... Actually, maybe both. And, uh... maybe... concern?" 

"You missed fear, but it's very small. Well done," I admitted, then turned back to Coulson. "I did suspect he was an empath, but only after I saw him interview sources for our investigation. And only then did I suspect a minor, subconscious ability. He subconsciously assessed the subject and acted accordingly. With time and training, I believe he could potentially become an asset. But I think he is better placed where he is right now, as a hunter." 

"Is that your professional opinion, or is your judgment clouded by your hatred of the Index?" Morse interrogated. 

Morse could go fuck herself. 

"Based on the good the Winchesters have done for this planet and the fact that if we even _tried_ to put Sam on the Index his brother would probably kill us, _yes_ , that is my _professional opinion_ , _Agent Morse_ ," I bit out. "Sam Winchester. You have a minor and subconscious empathic ability, which has been proven by coached demonstration. Basically, you can sense other people's emotions. The origin of your ability is unknown to us, and most likely to you, since you had no idea before S.H.I.E.L.D. came barging in here. My apologies, by the way. Nonetheless, you are _not_ going on the Index, but S.H.I.E.L.D. will most likely monitor you and the people immediately associated with you more closely than they were previously. Do you have any questions about any of the information I have just given you?" 

"How do you know so much about the Index?" the black-haired man asked curiously. 

"Cas, she's _Skywalker_. Or he. Is it he or she? Or they?" Charlotte asked curiously. 

"Either or is fine," I reassured her with a smile. "I know so much about the Index because I'm on it." 

"Aren't all the Avengers on it?" she questioned. 

"Coulson's not," I glowered playfully at him. So unfair. "But, yeah, most of us are. We all got nice little contingency plans if we go crazy and blow up a city. Comes with being on the motherfucking Index." 

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait," Dean interrupted. "You're an _Avenger_?" 

"Dean, _that's_ the thing you choose to focus on?" Sam asked incredulously. 

"A-and Agent Barton, holy _shit_!" 

"Hawkeye," I confirmed with a laugh. "Wasn't the bow a dead giveaway?" 

Dean started chuckling. 

"We, we, we were on a case with Hawkeye and Skywalker," he laughed. "Dude," he hit Sam, "we were on a case with two fucking _Avengers_!" 

"Dean," his brother groaned his name in exacerbation. 

"Solo," Coulson interrupted. 

"Yessir," I turned around to look at him. 

"Take the Winchesters, Bradbury, and Novak to Avengers Tower and set them up with some consultant badges. Congratulations, gentlemen and lady. Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D." 

"Uh, my name is Castiel," Novak raised his still cuffed hands. 

" _Avengers_ _Tower? Ohmygod!_ " Bradbury shrieked. 

"Charlie," Dean reprimanded. "Tone down the fangirl." 

"Well, have fun, Jayj," Tash clapped me on the back twice before following Morse (who was obviously angry) out the doorway. 

"Na-Natasha!" I exclaimed. "Natasha Romanoff, you are _not_ leaving me in a plane with the four of them— _Natasha_!" 

"Did you say 'plane'? Fuck that shit, I'm driving. Where're we going?" Dean asked. 

"New York City. That's where Avengers Tower is. And I'm a good pilot, you dick," I dissed him. 

"Okay, so, I-I'm an empath," Sam said slowly. "If you're on the Index, what's your ability?" 

"I'm a telekinetic, thus the name 'Skywalker,'" I said as I waved my hand. The cuffs came falling off, clattering on the wooden surface of the table. "Coulson thinks he's a fucking comedian. Dean Winchester, your ass is getting on that plane or I will sedate you and _then_ your ass will get on the plane." 

"Sedate him," Sam stated at the same time Dean demanded, "You are _not_ fucking sedating me!" 

"Fine. It's about a hour flight. Don't bitch about it while I'm flying. Let's go." 

" _You're_ flying?" Charlie asked. 

"I'm a good pilot!" I insisted. "Can we go? Let's go. Come on." 

Hopefully they were following me, but I didn't really stop to look as I strode out the way we came.

* * *

 

Ten minutes into Dean's bitching, I shot him with Fitz-Simmons's I.C.E.R. 

"There. Sedated," I stated casually as I kept my eyes on the skies. "He'll be awake by the time we get to the Tower; thought you'd like that better than me giving him a concussion or fucking with the blood flow in his brain." 

"What the hell was that?" Sam demanded. 

"Gun's called an I.C.E.R., Incapacitating Cartridge Emitting Railgun. It's a hollow bullet filled with a powerful sedative known as dendrotoxin. Non-lethal. And that one, diluted. I was tired of his skittish bitching," I explained. "He'll be up by the time we land." 

"The last time we were on a plane, it was to dig up a demon's bones. And the time before that, a demon hijacked our flight," Sam explained. 

"Dude, that blows," I couldn't help chuckling. 

"Would you mind too terribly if I sat up there?" Castiel asked. 

"Nah, man, come on up. Just don't touch anything," I told him, and he unbelted his seatbelt and clambered over to the co-pilot's seat. He just gripped the back of the seat and looked out the windshield. "Cas, I'm gonna hav'ta ask you to put your ass in a seat. The view's better sittin' down, anyways," I told him gently. He seemed to be enamored with the view, but for safety reasons, he really needed to place his butt in a seat and put a belt on. 

"I am an angel of the Lord, I don't need to sit down," he breathed as he took in the view. There were clouds below us and some above us as we sliced through the skies. 

"Well, angel or not, can you placate me, sit down, and put a belt on? Please?" I requested. 

"I guess," he grumbled as he unwillingly sat down and clicked the belt into place. 

I pretended not to see the wistful smile he gave at the sky. 

The rest of the flight was blissfully uneventful. No missiles or bullets aimed at us, no evasive maneuvers required. It was nice. 

"JARVIS, I'm gonna be to the Tower in about two minutes. Prepare the docking for a quinjet," I ordered. 

 _"Understood, Agent Solo,"_ JARVIS's robotic voice stated over the plane's speakers. 

"I'm also gonna need four computers set up for asset intake forms for S.H.I.E.L.D. Tablets or laptops are fine." 

 _"And where would you like those set up? Mr. Stark's conference room on the top floor?"_  

"Might as well, since Mr. Stark didn't give _me_ a conference room," I bitched. 

 _"Mr. Stark gave you a game room instead, Agent Solo,"_ JARVIS reminded me. 

"Ooh, Sassy JARVIS has come out to play," I teased the AI. "Can you please remind your douchey master and creator that it's his turn to get dinner? And tell him that if he gets Souk and Sandwich or Kabab Bites again they'll be a mutiny." 

 _"I will be sure to relay the message, Agent Solo,"_ JARVIS assured. 

"Thank you, Sir Sassy JARVIS," I dismissed the AI. "Lady and gentlemen, as we begin our descent on to Avengers Tower, please fasten your seatbelts and keep all hands, feet, and other body parts inside the aircraft until the ride has stopped. Thank you once again for flying S.H.I.E.L.D. Airlines." 

I took one circle around Avengers  Tower to get into position and then carefully brought the bird down on the helipad and cut the engine, the rotors still spinning but slowing down. 

"Is Dean awake yet?" I asked as the hatch slowly lowered and the wings folded up at the middle. 

"No," Charlie answered. "Should he be?" she took on a concerned tone. 

"Mmm, not necessarily," I told her as I undid my seatbelt and stood from the pilot seat. Kneeling down in front of the sleeping man still buckled in his harness, I informed them, "There's one thing I could try." Enhancing the shield around my left hand, I placed my hand over the entrance wound (a faint red mark on his neck) and pulled. 

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked. 

"Pulling out the dendrotoxin _very_ carefully. Don't try this at home. Or anywhere. Or... you know what, just don't try this at all." Little purple droplets eased out of the wound and into my palm, which had a nice protective light blue sheen to it. "Wakey wakey, jackass," I cooed as I pulled more dendrotoxin out of the wound. "One of you want to work out some residual anger and slap him awake, or can I?" 

"Dibs," Charlie and Sam said at the same time. 

"Rock paper scissors for it. I gotta get rid of this," I held up the dendrotoxin. "Meet me out front. Avengers Tower is huge as fuck and you don't want to go anywhere you don't have clearance to go. You'll find yourself locked in a closet courtesy of the friendly neighborhood artificial intelligence that way." 

Two minutes after I flung the dendrotoxin off the building —just kidding, I threw the little capsule of dendrotoxin into the air and shot it with a blast of telekinetic energy (responsible S.H.I.E.L.D. agent over here right now)— the Winchesters, Charlie, and Cas disembarked the aircraft. 

"You look a little green, Dean," I chuckled. 

"You fucking shot me!" he bitched. 

"It was a sedative. Don't bitch, princess. C'mon, right this way. Open the pod bay doors, HAL!" 

 _"That wasn't funny the last time you said it, and it isn't funny now,"_ JARVIS wisecracked. _"And it won't be funny the next time you say it."_ Nonetheless, however, the doors hissed open. 

"You know you love me, JARVIS," I quipped. 

 _"I am an AI. I am incapable of love."_  

"Yeah, thanks, JARVIS," I said sarcastically. "Anyway, welcome to Avengers Tower," I held my arms out dramatically. "Formerly known as Stark Tower, the name got changed after Loki wrecked it during the Battle of New York. Downstairs is used for more official-type shit: Stark Industries, random S.H.I.E.L.D. work; upstairs are living quarters, a couple labs, gym, basically whatever fantasy Tony wanted to indulge." 

"That's what happens when you're a genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist," Tony announced from behind the bar as he poured a couple fingers of bourbon. 

The room looked the same as before Loki and the Hulk wrecked it, but finished now instead of a work-in-progress. A whole glass wall overlooked Manhattan. A cluttered desk covered in papers, a keyboard, and three grey holographic screen bars were on one side of the room, and the (alcoholic) bar was on the other. Six steps down and a bit of a lit walkway was all his suits on display. 

"No, that's what happens when you're a rich spoiled brat," I corrected him. 

"Aww, thanks, sweetheart," he raised his glass to me before taking a sip. "Who're the civvies? JARVIS, who are the civilians?" 

 _"Castiel, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, and Charlie Bradbury, sir,"_ JARVIS answered. 

"I'm sorry, did you just say 'the _Winchesters_ '?" Stark repeated, setting his glass on the granite. 

"I believe his exact words were 'Dean Winchester' and 'Sam Winchester'. He didn't pluralize their last name," I remarked. 

"Thank you, smartass; I wanna know why two _psychotic mass murderers_ and their little friends are in my Tower," Tony snapped, coming around to the front of the bar. 

"Huh, that vein in your forehead is pulsing," I pointed, walking towards him. "See? Right here." 

" _JJ_ ," Tony stressed. 

"Oh, _relax_ , tinhead," I rolled my eyes. "They're assets for S.H.I.E.L.D. Although, technical term is 'consultants,' I believe. We're just here to set them up with badges and benefits and we'll be on our way. Get pizza or something for dinner, yeah?" 

"Steakhouse it is," he countered. 

"You suck. Come along, children; the conference room is this way. Please ignore the gigantic _ass_ leaning against the bar." 

There was a hallway that I led them down that ran to the conference room. Just a normal conference room with the typical big table, swivel desk chairs, and an overlook of Manhattan. Five Stark tablets were set at five of the chairs, and in the corner of the room was a high-tech printer. 

"This should be simple. The forms are pretty self-explanatory. Name, DOB, species, height, weight, blood type, gender, any underlying health concerns, et cetera, et cetera. I'm gonna be your case agent 'cause the Director hates me. Once you're done with the forms, I'll print you some badges. Legit ones, so you don't need to be flashing your fakes, anymore. Hit me up if you've got any questions; I'll be revising your pasts. JARVIS, mind playing something good?" 

"Got any Zep?" Dean asked. 

 _"I do, Mr. Winchester. I have access to virtually every song ever recorded."_  

"Play the man some Zep, then, JARVIS!" I laughed, and some Led Zeppelin played softly through the speakers.

* * *

 

"Excuse me," Castiel spoke up a few minutes later. "I don't have a last name." 

"Put down Winchester," Dean said flippantly. 

"Are you-are you sure?" Castiel stuttered, obviously touched. 

"It's just a last name, Cas," he blew off, affected by Castiel's response. 

"Get a room," I spoke up. 

"What does that mean?" Castiel asked the same time Dean insisted, "We're not dating!" 

"Too late, I ship it. Any other questions?" 

"What's this pronoun option thing?" Sam asked curiously. 

"It's mostly for LGBTQ+. Hypothetical, a transwoman joins S.H.I.E.L.D. Born a male, but for all intents and purposes is a woman, just born into the wrong body. She transitions but her biological gender is still male. (That's why there's a biological gender field and a chosen gender field.) So, she puts down her pronouns as female," I explained. "She, her, hers, herself, et cetera. Anything else?"

* * *

 

**Author's Note:**

> Consultant is 100% different than Agent. Agents do what their told when they're told to do it, while Consultants choose the cases they consult on. Basically, it's a huge formality for the Winchesters to continue doing their cases legally and with a pay check.


End file.
